On Faith
by bourbon
Summary: Jordan has a crisis of faith when tragedy suddenly strikes her life. Some WJ. COMPLETE!
1. Palm Sunday

_Warning: This will deal with a lot of spiritual issues that are personal and important to me. It might not be to everyone's liking. _

_Rest assured, it's still a CJ story, though, and there will be W/J, too!_

XXXXXXXXXXX

They call them "flashbulb memories."

I could explain it to you in scientific terms...something about the amygdala firing neurons onto the hippocampus. During times of tragedy or shock, the brain seers the event into your memory like images on a photographic negative. You forever remember where you were, what you wore, how you felt.

We all have those moments...JFK assassination, Challenger explosion, 9/11.

Or the death of a loved one.

I remember it was a Sunday morning in April. I had the windows open. It had rained, and the smell of ozone filled my apartment. I had just brushed my teeth, and I remember how bad the orange juice tasted.

I planned to go for a run and had set the alarm for seven. Many, many hits of the snooze button later, it was heading on nine.

Seven had been too unrealistic, though. I'd been out late with Woody the night before. Just a friendly thing...meeting for beers and greasy food at some faux Irish pub. P.J. O'Toole's or Maggie McGuire's. You know the kind of place.

He said he had to cut out early. The next day was Palm Sunday, and he wanted to go to the 6:45 AM Mass.

"Oh, yeah….I forgot. Palm Sunday." I drank down the last of my beer.

"How could you forget about Palm Sunday? Don't you remember when you were a kid getting your little palm cross you could take home?" He spoke with nostalgic excitement, and I could picture chubby little Woody Hoyt in knee pants and a new haircut getting his palm cross from the priest. "You forgot about Palm Sunday." He shook his head. " A nice Catholic girl like you?"

"Nice, Catholic girl? What makes you think I'm much of either one these days?"

"You don't consider yourself a Catholic anymore, Jordan?" he asked in genuine surprise.

"I'm sort of a 'recovering Catholic.' Like a recovering alcoholic, but without the twelve-step program."

He raised his eyebrows and shrugged humorlessly. _Fine. Don't laugh at my jokes. See how far that gets you, _I thought to myself.

Then of course, I felt guilty. It was wrong to be flippant. I really did admire his faith, even if I had lost most of mine along the way.

Now here it was pushing nine. I was standing in the kitchen, I remember that, trying to be creative and wondering what kind of breakfast I could whip up with the opened jar of salsa, bacon, O.J., and leftover Chinese take-out that made up the sole contents of my refrigerator that Palm Sunday morning.

Then the phone rang.

It is all etched so vividly in my consciousness. I can hear the woman's voice, the smell in the air, the feel of the phone in my hand.

"Hello," the woman said. Her voice was calm and measured. With an accent. Southern, maybe. "I am looking for a Jordan Cavanaugh."

"That's me."

There was a brief pause. She chuckled nervously. "Oh. I was expecting a man."

"Yeah, I get that." Probably a telemarketer. I almost hung up on her.

I could hear her take a deep breath in. "I'm calling from Mercy Hospital in Glendale, Arizona. I'm an ER nurse here." She hesitated, a brief pause, almost infinitesimal, and I knew in a heart-sickening instant what she would say next. "I'm afraid I have some very bad news..."


	2. Broken Promises

I always thought I would be prepared when the time came. I always thought the end would be different.

The end came when a drunk driver ran a red light and plowed into my father's car. He didn't die peacefully in his sleep, as I had always imagined. He was conscious long enough to comprehend the magnitude of what had happened to him; what was, in all likelihood, going to happen to him.

He was rushed to the hospital where they worked on him for hours. He had hovered in the space between life and death for most of the night before breathing his last at 6:18 AM Mountain Time.

I could feel my knees buckle under me as the nurse spoke, and I leaned against the counter to keep from collapsing on the kitchen floor.

And then, it's as if I were watching myself from outside my own body. It's another of those coping mechanisms that happens to you in times of tragedy, I'm told. It's a strange, detached sensation, as if you are moving through a foggy haze.

I thanked the nurse for her call and gently placed the phone back on its cradle.

I watched myself calmly take a shower, dress. I called Garret and left him a message telling him what happened and that I wouldn't be in work for the next few days, left a message at the Pogue. I called the airlines to get a flight, called the rental car agency. I didn't know where Glendale, Arizona was, let alone what my father was doing there. As it turns out, it is outside of Phoenix.

I called Woody then. He was just back from Mass. I heard myself tell him that my father was dead, and I had to fly to Phoenix to bring him home. It was all so strangely calm, as if I was telling him that my father's car had broken down in Cambridge, and I had to go give him a lift.

"I'll be right there, Jordan." It was the first thing he said.

"No, that's not necessary. I'm taking the 12:05 flight on Northwest. I'm heading out now. I just...wanted you to know, Woody."

"I'm glad you called." And then a pause. "Jordan....are you _okay?"_

"Yeah. I'll be fine, Woody. Thanks. I guess it all hasn't sunk in yet."

I quickly threw some things in a bag and headed out and hoped I would make it there on time. I knew there were things I was supposed to be feeling: grief, anger, guilt, but now I just felt as if my whole body had been shot full of Novacaine.

All I could feel was a sense of urgency. I _had_ to get there, _had _to see him, _had _to bring him home.

I made it on time, parked in longterm, stood in the long line for my ticket. I got a bereavement fare on Northwest, and the ticket agent pinched her face up and gave me a, "I'm sorry for your loss."

How can you be sorry for someone you don't even know? It puzzled me, people saying what they think they should say.

The line through security was hopelessly slow, but I made it through with just enough time. I was standing at the gate getting ready to board when I saw from the corner of my eye someone running down the concourse.

It was Woody, dodging passengers in the crowded terminal.

"Jordan..." he huffed breathlessly when he reached the gate. "I thought I wasn't going to make it."

"Woody...What are you doing here? How did you get through security?"

He held up a ticket and gave me a sheepish smile. "I thought you could use the company."

XXXXX

My first reaction was anger, I admit. Who the hell did he think he was? I didn't need Woody Hoyt, Boy Detective, riding to my rescue. This was about _me_, not about him.

He meant well, I knew, but I said nothing to him, and I didn't cooperate when he asked several passengers to shift their seats so he could sit with me. At least he knew better than to chatter or offer any empty platitudes on the meaning of it all.

We didn't speak for a long time. Finally, he cleared his throat and proceeded with cautious tones. "I know Max wasn't on the best terms with the P.D. when he left," he began slowly. "And with everything that's happened since." His voice dropped. "You know. With Malden. But he still has friends. I know a guy in homicide who plays the bagpipes. If you want, I can make a call..."

"No. No funeral." I shook my head.

"No funeral? What do you mean?"

"_No_. _Funeral_. What word didn't you understand?" I snapped. He looked away with hurt eyes. I felt guilty, but I didn't apologize. "There won't be any funeral. Why? So people can stand around and cluck? 'Isn't it a tragedy? What a shame! Poor Jordan!' No." I shook my head violently. "My grief isn't for public consumption."

I stuck my nose in the in-flight magazine then. There was a long, long silence. My mind had been so occupied with the details of the trip, I had been able to keep thoughts of my father at bay. But I had finally re-entered my body and found it a painful place to be.

It had been months since I had seen my father. He had returned to Boston briefly after a trip to Ireland to visit distant relatives.

We'd had dinner, and he was full of stories about his travels. He spoke with excitement about an upcoming trip to see old Army buddies and a few friends from the force who had retired out West.

I told him about a few interesting cases I was working on, gave him an update on the Pogue. It was as if we were nothing more than old acquaintances catching up at a high school reunion.

"So, dad. When do you think you're coming home? To stay," I asked as we parted that night.

He looked at me. His eyes were sad. He felt the distance, too. "Soon, Jordan. Just this one last trip, and I'll be home. I promise."

"Promise."

He wrapped me in his arms then, and I tucked my head under his chin. "I do. I promise."

My mother had been taken from me in the most cruel and unnatural of ways. It seemed to me as if each person should be allotted no more than one tragedy in a lifetime. It was part of the bargain, and that bargain had been broken.

The words on the page of the magazine began to blur from the tears that rimmed my eyes.

Woody's hand reached up for mine, and I let him take it. I leaned against him then, and he dropped a soft kiss on the top of my head, without the implication or expectation of anything more.

Maybe company was not such a bad idea after all.

We landed soon afterwards. I sat up and dried my eyes with the heel of my hand.

"It's late, Jordan," he said softly. "You must be exhausted. Maybe we should check into the hotel first."

"No. No, I want to go to the hospital." My own voice sounded thin and strange in my ear. "I want to see my father."


	3. Mercy Hospital

_Thanks to all who have R&Red. This is a very personal story to me, and I wanted to write it even if no one read it! _

_Warning: The issues might start to get a little heavy, and it might not be everyone's cup of tea. I hope if you're reading, you'll still enjoy. Thanks!_

XXXXXXXXX

I have spent the better part of my adulthood around death. I know what death is. I knew that after the ER doctor stepped helplessly away from my father's body, she had glanced up at the clock to record time of death.

I knew that hospital staff had removed the tubes and wires, washed him, pulled a sheet across him. Then he had been transported downstairs to the hospital morgue.

I knew all this, logically. I thought I knew what to expect, but my heart raced and my mouth had gone dry. I walked toward with trepidation down the eerily quiet hallway in the hospital's basement toward the morgue.

There was a desk clerk outside the door to the morgue. I heard Woody mutter something to him, and it was then I realized that I was gripping Woody's hand, my nails digging into his palm. I let go then and watched as the blood rushed back into his fingertips. He had said nothing.

There was another hushed exchange. The clerk rose from the desk.

"Jordan?" Woody's hand was on my shoulder. "Do you want to go in?"

The young clerk ushered me inside and discreetly stepped back out.

My father was there, lying on table. I walked to him, the heels of my shoe echoing in the vast, near-empty room. He had always seemed larger than life to me. He had always stood head and shoulders above anyone else in the room, but he seemed so small and fragile there.

I found myself thinking it might all be a mistake, that he was really alive and might sit up and jump from the table. I sure I'm not the first person to feel that way, and not the first person to be disappointed.

I somehow expected to feel different. I thought there would some rush of emotion, that I would break down and throw myself across his body. I cried, of course. Quiet, bitter tears, but there were no hysterical sobs. I thought some wisdom would come to me, and I would be filled with peace upon seeing him, but it didn't happen. I felt empty, cold, and alone. And increasingly angry.

I don't know how long I stood there. It could have been ten minutes; it could have been an hour. When I walked back into the hallway, Woody was leaning against the wall with his head down, and I knew he had been crying, too.

The desk clerk had apparently gone off duty and had been replaced by an ancient Franciscan nun. I didn't know they still had nuns at these Catholic hospitals.

She had a beatific smile on her face and handed me a bag. I recognized it as the kind of bag we used at work, and I knew it held my father's belongings.

"If you'll just sign here..." She slid a clipboard and a pen across the desk toward me, and I leaned down to sign.

"It was his time. God needed your father in heaven, dear." She reached her gnarled hand out and placed it on time of mine. I yanked it away.

"I guess God didn't realize I needed him here on earth."

She closed her eyes and shook her head slowly. "God knows everything. It is all God's will, dear. All God's will."

I slammed the pen down on the table and rose up. Sensing what was coming, Woody placed his hand gently on my forearm.

"Let's go, Jordan..."

I shook him off. "God's _will_?" I started with barely concealed anger.

Woody tugged again at my arm. "Jordan..."

"God's will? Was it God's will that a drunk driver should plow into my father's car? Is that God had in store for my father?"

The old nun was looking up at me now with wide eyes. I was ready to launch in again when Woody spun me around and pushed me back toward the elevator.

"What was that about, Jordan?"

"Did you hear what she said? How could she sit there and say that complete crap to me?"

"She was just trying to help."

"She wasn't trying to help." I slapped at the elevator buttons with frustration. "She was trying to force feed that b.s. to me. I had enough of that in parochial school."

"Jordan, I know how you're feeling right now..."

"_Do_ you?" I whipped around to face him.

His eyes darkened and his head dropped. "Yes, Jordan. I do," he said simply.

I looked away in shame. I had forgotten about the loss of Woody's own parents. I started to say something, but the elevator doors opened and he stepped inside.

We rode in silence. The doors opened again, and we stepped back out into the chaos of the emergency room. I saw the doctor who had worked on my father. I had met her briefly when we arrived at the hospital earlier. I recognized the look of exhaustion, and I knew she was probably working back-to-back shifts.

I called out to her, "Excuse me, doctor? I have a question for you."

"Of course...."

"The driver who hit my father....can you tell me what happened to him?"

The doctor frowned and shifted uncomfortably. "We treated him for a broken collar bone and some minor lacerations. The police walked him out of here about two hours after he came in."

I could immediately feel the sting of hot tears return to my eyes. I turned to Woody, the corners of my mouth turned up into a bitter smile.

"God's _will_?" I said with a hiss. He reached out for me, but I had already turned, moving blindly down the hospital corridor.


	4. Lashing Out

I stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom for I don't know how long. People moved in and out, curious, I'm sure about the puffy-faced woman standing there with the water running.

Eventually, when I had regained some measure of composure, I took a deep breath and went back out into the hallway. Woody was there, standing patiently with a bottle of orange juice and a plastic-wrapped pastry. He handed them to me solemnly.

"The cafeteria is closed, so I got them from the machine. I can't guarantee the freshness or flavor. But you should eat."

"Thanks," I said in a hoarse whisper. I should have made him stay in Boston. He didn't deserve this. But all the same, I was glad he was here.

We walked back out through the emergency room. There was a young paramedic hovering around the intake desk. As we passed, the nurse behind the desk pointed us out to him.

"Miss!" The paramedic hurried over. "Excuse me...I was one of the paramedics on the scene last night of your father's accident. I heard he didn't make it. I'm sorry," he said with genuine sincerity. I nodded back at him in appreciation.

He held out a small bag. "This was in your father's car. He was still conscious when we got to the scene, and he asked me to take this down from the rearview mirror. He must have dropped it in the ambulance." He smiled weakly.

Great. My father had some kind of final, sentimental fixation on a pair of fuzzy dice or an air freshener. I dropped the bag into my purse and we headed to the car.

We drove on to the hotel in silence. I curled up in the passenger seat, looking with unfocused eyes out at the dark Phoenix sky. Woody took the luggage and checked in. Our rooms would be across the hall from each other.

We did not speak until we reached my room. I went in and sat on the edge of the bed. Woody stood awkwardly in front of me, jangling the change in his pocket.

"I can call the Glendale P.D., if you'd like. See what I can find out."

I nodded. "Yes. Thanks."

"We'll need to get in touch first thing tomorrow with a funeral home about..." He paused and searched for words. "Getting your father ready to be flown home."

"I want him cremated here. I'll fly the ashes back home."

He nodded. "Jordan," he began with a hesitation in his voice. "Have you given any more thought to having a funeral?"

"No funeral, Woody. I said that." My voice was rising in pitch. He put his hands up in resignation.

"All right, Jordan," he said gently. "If you don't want to have a funeral for your father, that's nobody's business but your own, but I hope you won't let the way you feel right now cloud your judgment." He winced, regretting immediately what he had said.

I rose to my feet. "'The way I'm feeling?...._Cloud my judgment?!' _What the hell is that supposed to mean."

"I understand you're angry. I do. When my father died, I was angry at the world, angry at God. I didn't understand how He could let it happen. It took me a long time to figure out that there are things that we can never understand."

I wish I could adequately explain the sense of betrayal I felt at that moment. I really thought that Woody, of all people, would know and accept what I was feeling.

I stood inches away from him now, a finger pointed accusingly in his face. "This is _not _God's plan, Woody. It's _not. _ We all have free will, and that man _chose_ to drink, and he _chose _to get behind the wheel of that car. God didn't plan it. He just sat back and let it happen."

He gently brushed my finger aside. "I'm sorry, Jordan. I didn't mean it like that. All I meant was..."

"God let my father die, and the driver walked away with a few cuts and bruises. That's God's will, huh? Boy, He's sure got a helluva sense of humor." My voice shook with rage.

"Jordan, please, that's not..."

"So, God forced that guy to drink a case of beer and then handed him a set of car keys, all in the name of some divine plan?"

I raised my hands, clenched into angry fists. He took my wrists.

"Jordan, listen, please..."

I struggled to pull away. One arm slipped from his grip easily, and I gave the other a hard yank. It flew with up and connected with the side of his face with a hard, sharp smack.

His head snapped back, and, off balance, he reeled backward into the bedside table, sending the lamp to the floor with a clatter. He stood after a moment of stunned silence and turned to me. His cheek was marked with a bright red palm print, and he dabbed at the thin trail of blood at the corner of his mouth.

"Woody, I'm sorry. That was an accident..." I took a step in to him, but he raised a hand and shook his head.

"Good night, Jordan," was all he said. He moved past me and went across the hall to his room.

I had tested the limits of his patience once again. I knew I should have gone to him then, but I didn't have the strength to follow.

After a moment, I sat wearily on the bed and emptied the bag with my father's belongings. Car keys, a key for a hotel in downtown Phoenix. I would have to go there and retrieve his things. Maybe Woody would go for me. I wasn't sure I was up to it.

His wallet was there. I opened it. They had taken his emergency contact card out and put it back in upside down. I pulled it out to turn it right side up, for some reason needing everything to be the way it had been before the accident.

There was a picture of me underneath, and old class picture. Of all the pictures that had been taken of me over the years, I don't know why he had chosen to keep this one. There I was, smiling stiffly at the camera with braces and a bad perm. My lip began to quiver. I put the card back in the wallet and snapped it shut.

The things sat there on the bed, and I ran my fingers over them. The wallet, the keys, these were the last things he had touched.

I realized then that I had forgotten the bag that the paramedic had given me. I reached for my purse, pulled out the bag, and emptied it on the bed.

It was a rosary. It had been my mother's. My father had given it to her on their wedding day when she had become a Catholic. I remembered seeing her with it, praying quietly, her lips moving noiselessly, rubbing those glass beads between her fingers as if she had been born to it.

My hand shook when I picked it up. It felt alien in my fingers.

So, my father's last thoughts had not been of me. They had been of that rosary and praying his hopeless prayers to a God who would not save him.

I opened the bedside drawer, dropped the rosary in, and slammed the drawer shut.


	5. Letting Go

I couldn't sleep.

I lay in bed for a long time among my father's belongings, staring up at the ceiling. Eventually, I drifted into a brief, shallow sleep. Awful images shot through my brain like fever dreams. At some point, I turned the television on. I stared unseeingly at the screen, blurry from the steady stream of angry, frustrated tears.

I finally rose at dawn and stumbled into the shower, tried to make myself presentable. A small part of me feared that Woody might have taken the first flight out of Phoenix. I wouldn't have blamed him if he did, but he hadn't, of course, and he greeted me as if nothing had happened when I knocked meekly at his door.

We crossed the parking lot to the Waffle House next door for breakfast. I'd never been to one, but Woody swore by them. The short order cooks all looked as if they were on work furlough from the local prison.

The waitress talked me into getting something called "Scattered All the Way," which turned out to be a mound of greasy hashbrowns topped with onions, tomatoes, ham, mushrooms, chili, and jalapenos, all swimming in a congealed orange substance that passed for cheese sauce.

"Some breakfast, huh?" Woody was wolfing his down with glee.

"Yeah. I think I can actually hear my arteries hardening." I poked at it distastefully with my fork. I hadn't eaten much in 24 hours, but I just wasn't hungry. "Have you had a chance to call the Glendale P.D. yet?"

He paused to take a big forkful and then spoke. "Uh, yeah. No news yet. I'll try again later."

It was just enough of a pause that I knew he was lying. I moved my plate to the side and leaned forward.

"What did the police say?" He continued to push the food around on the plate as if he hadn't heard. "Come on, Woody, what did they say?"

He took a deep breath and set the fork down. "The guy who hit your father had a record. Ten months ago he lost his license for a year on a DUI."

"How is it that he was driving on a suspended license?"

Woody shrugged helplessly. "You can take away the license, but you can't stop them from driving."

Silly me. Thinking that someone might actually abide by the law. "Well, then he should have been thrown in jail ten months ago."

"He only had the DUI. No property damage, no personal injury. He'd never gotten into so much as a fender bender before."

"So...let me see if I can follow your logic. This guy has to actually kill someone before the law can do anything to _stop_ him from killing someone. _That_ makes sense. A little late, don't you think?"

"We both know the law only punishes you for what you've done and not for what you might do."

There was a pause while I let the news seep in. "So, what happens now?"

"They said he'll probably plead to vehicular manslaughter. So, the good news is that you won't have to endure a trial." He was trying so hard to be upbeat, but I found myself inching closer to a state of unbridled rage.

"How much time will he get?"

"I don't know. My best guess is three to five years."

The words rang in my ears, and I felt as if I had been physically struck. _Three to five years._ It wasn't enough that he had been taken. Cruelty had been heaped upon cruelty. "That's it? That's what my father's life is worth? Three to five years?"

"I know this is upsetting. I do. Believe me, Jordan. I felt the same way when my father died. And I'm angry about this, too." His voice cracked. He took a long pause before speaking again. "The only thing that gets me through things like this is trusting that it all happens for a reason. It all works out the way it's supposed to."

"And I'm just supposed to buy into that?"

"That's what faith is," he said in a small voice.

"Sorry." I rose from the table and threw down my share of the bill. "I'm fresh out."

I walked out of the restaurant, knowing I didn't dare look back at him without losing my barely maintained composure.

XXXXXXXXX

I headed up to my room and pulled out the phone book.

As long as I kept busy, I didn't have to think. I didn't have to think about my father being taken too early, or having the last link to my childhood, the last link to my mother severed. I didn't have to think about the words that would remain forever unspoken between us, the damage that would go unrepaired.

I called several funeral homes to arrange my father's cremation, reaching a series of unctuous morticians who spoke in solemn yet cheerful tones about selling me cremation plans so elaborate they'd make a Viking blush.

I finally spoke to a woman who seemed to understand that I merely wanted simplicity and speed. Her voice was warm and maternal, and I liked her immediately. I made arrangements with her.

I didn't see Woody for most of the day. I admired his faith, I really did, but it seemed foreign to me. The last of my reserves had finally been tapped out.

It was dinner time when he knocked.

"Hi," he said uneasily.

"Hi." My voice was rough. We stood there awkwardly for a moment before I stepped aside and let him in.

I turned to him then. I don't know why it happened...maybe it was lack of sleep and no more sustenance in the past 24 hours than a vending machine cruller. Maybe it was seeing Woody there trying to be a rock when he, himself, was so obviously hurting. Maybe it was that I had been too consumed with anger to really mourn yet.

I opened my mouth to speak, to tell him cheerfully what I had accomplished that day. Instead, I looked into his pained eyes and began to sob with complete and utter abandon. My whole frame shook with the raw tears of fresh grief, and I felt my knees buckle.

Woody was there; he caught me on the way down and pulled me into his arms. We stood for a moment as he rocked gently back and forth. He guided me to the bed, and I curled up there.

It must have been an hour I lay there as my tears gradually subsided. He was beside me the entire time, gently stroking my hair and whispering soft and soothing words.


	6. Out of Darkness, Light

I eventually drifted away into a short sleep, leaving me feeling cranky and listless after I awoke, as late afternoon naps sometimes do.

Woody went out to get something to eat. While he was gone, my cell phone started vibrating. It was a message from Garret with words of support. Cynical, acerbic Garret Macy does have the soul of a poet.

I got up and splashed some water on my face. I looked like hell, of course: matted hair, red and blotchy face. I tried to spruce up a bit, but there's only so much a scrunchie and some lipstick can do.

Woody returned with burgers. I ate about half mine before the rest of it ended up in the trash can. We talked a bit about our plans for the next day. Woody offered to go clean out my father's rental car and to pick up his belongings at the hotel. It was an enormous weight off my mind. I didn't see how I could get through it on my own.

I needed to pick up my father's ashes. I dreaded that, too, but it was something I had to do on my own.

Woody thumbed through the paper while I curled up onto my side on the bed. We didn't talk, but the company was nice. Eventually, he rose and said he would leave me alone.

I dragged myself in for a nice, long bath. It helped, a little. I lay there, thinking of the events of the past day and a half. I didn't think I could ever fully express to Woody how much I needed him there. My earlier anger seemed silly now.

I liked Woody very much and considered him a close friend, but I had never really thought of him as anything more than an over-caffeinated, charming doofus in the body of a GQ cover boy. It was hard to think of him as just that anymore. He'd been wonderful so far: strong, sensitive, stoic, with more depth than I had ever imagined.

Something was _different._

I actually slept that night, a long, hard, dreamless sleep.

XXXXX

I passed up the Waffle House hash browns the next morning for plain wheat toast and coffee. Woody got a double order with extra chili. That boy does like his food.

He took my rental car and headed over to my father's hotel and the salvage yard to clean out the car. He came back and hour or so later with a suitcase and set it on my bed.

"It's just clothes, Jordan. A few pair of pants, a couple shirts. There was a thermos and some maps in the car. That's it."

I looked at it there for a long time. I couldn't open it. "Let's put it back in the car. We can drop it off at a Goodwill."

He nodded with understanding and the suitcase quickly vanished.

"Are you up for some lunch?" he asked when he returned from the car.

"No, thanks. I've got to go to..." The words were so difficult to say.

"You're going to the funeral home, aren't you?" he asked quietly. I nodded. "You want me to come?"

"No. I'd like to be alone, if that's okay."

He nodded. "Of course." He planted a soft kiss on my forehead and handed me the keys.

XXXXX

The funeral home was in a practical, no-nonsense building. It was one of the few funeral homes I've seen that aren't done up look like a miniature Tara. I was greeted by a small, round woman. From her voice, I recognized her as the woman I had spoken to on the phone.

Her eyes were warm and consoling, and I knew that a part of her probably grieved along with everyone who came through the front door.

My voice shook as I introduced myself. The woman smiled sympathetically and went into the back and returned with a simple plastic box.

She set it on the table while she drew up some paper work. I just...stared at it. It was surreal, how this huge man had been reduced to little square box.

She handed the box to me with a gentle smile. "Easter came early for your father this year."

Maybe it was just the way she said it, but a chill ran through me. I was speechless and immobile.

Worry lines creased her forehead. "Are you all right?" She touched my forearm with concern.

I nodded mutely, not quite able to speak, and stumbled out to the car.

Her words rang in my ear all the way back to the hotel.

_Easter came early for your father this year._ She had said it simply and sincerely, without the saccharine, moralizing judgment of the old nun. _Easter came early for your father this year._

I pulled into the lot of the hotel. My father's ashes sat in the passenger seat next to me. I knew it would be this way; I knew it would not be easy. I placed my hand on the top of the box and began to sob.

"Oh, Daddy..." How long since I had called him that? I sat there for a long time, crying at the supreme unfairness of it all, telling him all the things I would never get to tell him in person, raging at him for leaving me

Finally, I made my way upstairs and called the airline to arrange for our trip back to Boston the next day.

XXXXX

Woody stopped by at dinner time.

"You hungry? Come on, you should eat. My treat."

I wasn't hungry, but I said yes, anyway. We walked around downtown Glendale for a bit. It's cute -- a lot of little antique stores. I thought of my father prowling around here, poking into theses little shops.

We somehow ended up at place called Edelweiss Haus, with a vast selection of unpronounceable beers and an obscene amount of German food, all served with snappy Germany efficiency.

We tried to chat, but I always found my mind wandering back to my father. We talked about work; I thought about my father. We talked about the Red Sox; I thought about my father. We talked about the weather, current events, the price of gas; I thought about my father.

Woody chatted on. I knew he was trying to distract me, and I appreciated it; I truly did. I tried to keep up, but I sank further into monosyllabic responses.

And then I started to tear up again. When my mother died, I think I was too young to really process it all. This was much, much harder. "Here I go again." I sniffed loudly and rubbed at my cheeks and eyes. "Jeez...I'm sorry, Woody. I'm not the best company, am I?"

"You don't need to apologize, Jordan."

"I just can't seem to stop, you know?" I let out a short, humorless laugh. "Does it ever stop?"

"No. But it gets better," he said gently. "It'll be hard for awhile. And then every day will get a little easier. Then one day, you'll get up, hit the shower, and you'll suddenly realize it wasn't the first thing you thought of when you woke up that morning.

He was quiet for a moment. His eyes scanned the room, and I knew he was very very deliberately choosing his words.

He started to speak, his voice soft and gentle. "You know...I've always wanted to be a cop. Since I was a kid. I wanted to be just like my dad. But I was just Woody Hoyt, the funny fat kid, Sheriff Hoyt's older boy. My dad used to call me Crisco, because I was 'fat in the can.'" He smiled ruefully. "He used to tell me I'd never make it as a cop. I was too fat, too lazy. Then he was killed, and I just had to prove him wrong. I wanted to be someone Cal could look up to. So, I started watching what I ate, working out every spare minute of the day. I started studying, and I got my grades up. I got a scholarship for kids whose parents have been killed in the line of duty. I never would have been able to go to college otherwise. I got into the police academy, made detective, got a job in Boston.

"I can honestly say that none of that would have happened if my father had lived. I'm not glad my father died, Jordan. I don't think he had to die so I could be a cop. It was just a senseless tragedy. Sometimes terrible things just _happen_. But I think that no matter what the tragedy is, something good always comes of it. You can call it karma, kismet, or the hand of God. But I don't think it is an accident."

We were both silent for a moment before he tucked back into his dinner.

"You've got to try this sauerbraten, Jordan. It's unbelievable."


	7. Easter Sunday

We had an early flight out of Phoenix the next day, and we both managed to oversleep. It was a frantic morning, trying to pack, check-out, return the car.

I almost forgot the rosary in the bedside drawer. Almost, but not quite.

Takeoff was delayed, lucky for us, and we all sat packed into the small waiting area. Woody went off in search of breakfast. I tried to read the newspaper, without much luck.

Suddenly, a small hand reached up and knocked the paper out of my hand with a smack. I looked down into the chocolatey, laughing face of a little red-headed girl. She was all of about 18 months, I'd guess. Her cheeks were round and puffy, a tell-tale sign of prednisone use.

"Megan, no, sweetie!" The little girl's mother ran after her and scooped her up into her arms. She turned to me. "I'm sorry about that."

"No, it's okay," I said. The mother pulled a pack of wipes out of her bag and went to work on her daughter's face.

"Look at you, messy face girl!" Megan giggled and squirmed.

"She's beautiful."

"Thanks." The mother smiled. She kissed the girl's nose. "She's my little miracle girl," she said more to herself than to me.

The little girl reached out her hand and took my finger. "How long has it been since the transplant?" I asked quietly.

The mother turned to me in surprise. "How did you..."

"I'm a doctor. I recognized the prednisone."

The mother looked away and smoothed Megan's curls. "She had a liver transplant eight months ago. We'd been on the list since she was born. I wasn't a match, and my husband wasn't a good candidate for a live donor. Then eight months ago, he was killed when lightning struck a tree and it fell on his car as he drove home from work. It was a freak thing." Her eyes darkened, but then she looked down at her daughter with a radiant smile. "But Megan was able to get part of his liver, and she's doing great." The little girl cooed and let out a little peal of laughter. The mother shook her head. "I can't believe I'm telling this to a complete stranger. I'm so sorry!" she said with a laugh.

"It's okay. Really."

Pre-boarding for our flight was finally announced over the P.A. The mother swung Megan onto her hip and rose. "Well, that's us. Off to see grandma."

"It was nice to meet you, Megan," I said. Megan waved over her mother's shoulder as I watched them board.

Woody appeared then with a bottle of juice and a muffin. "For you. Please eat. I'm worried about you." I peeled the wrapper off the muffin with a laugh. "What's funny?"

"You're like a mother hen." He looked away, and I knew I'd hurt his feelings. "Thanks, Woody. I mean it."

XXXXX

We were quiet on the way home. I tried to read the newspaper again. I could see that Woody was watching me with concern. I looked up at him occasionally, and he would give me a reassuring smile.

Maybe I was finally seeing him in a different light. Why hadn't I ever really noticed before?

We hit unbelievable turbulence as we crossed the Mississippi. I've never been a good flyer, and I dug my nails into the armrest. Woody's hand reached across and found mine.

We had been flying through gloomy, blackness for miles. I could hear Megan's laughter every time the plane dipped. At least _she_ was enjoying it.

I shut my eyes tight and leaned my head back. What if Woody was right? Maybe things just happen. Awful, tragic things for no reason at all. Maybe the things that happened to us were a far cry from what God wanted for us, but maybe He didn't show us the darkness without also showing us the light.

"Look, Jordan," I heard Woody's voice say. He was pointing out the window.

We were coming out of the black cloud just then. The sky was blue and brilliant.

Well, no one ever accused God of being subtle.

The rest of the trip was uneventful. We were both exhausted and gathered up our bags in silence. He had taken a cab to the airport, so I drove him home in my car. I pulled up to the curb in front of his building, and we sat for a moment.

He turned to me. "I'm sorry if I said anything that caused you any pain during this trip," he said slowly. "That's the last thing I wanted to do, Jordan."

"It's okay, Woody," I said simply. "Thanks. I don't think I could have gotten through the last few days without you." It was inadequate and ineloquent, but words were lacking.

It was an impulse...I leaned over and kissed him once, soft and very quick. Maybe it wasn't love and romance. Not now. But it was more than friendship.

The next few days were hard. I cried a lot at first, but every day was better than the last. I kept putting off going to my father's house. I wasn't ready for that.

I called the Pogue. Everyone was very kind and full of condolences. I hadn't changed my mind about the funeral, but maybe a big old Irish wake was in order.

I wasn't sure what to do with the ashes. The would have to sit in my closet until I could decide. It could wait. I don't know...it made me feel like he wasn't really and truly gone.

Woody called every day to check on me. I called him on Good Friday, but he was on his way out the door to Mass. He asked me to come, but I said no. Not yet.

I finally ventured out on Sunday morning. It was bright and sunny, and I wandered around the neighborhood. Kids hunted for eggs in their front yards, old ladies strolled to church in their new Easter hats.

I didn't know what the future held. I wondered what good could possibly come of all this. Maybe my life would find some unknown purpose. Maybe my father's death would finally bring closure to my mother's murder.

Or maybe it would be something, or someone, that had been there all along.

I stopped in front of an Episcopal church. I smiled to myself. The old priest from my grade school days used to sneeringly refer to the Episcopal church as "junior varsity Catholics."

I could hear familiar Easter music coming from inside. The service was just starting, and I found myself climbing the stairs then. There was an usher standing just inside. I almost turned to go, but he handed me a service bulletin.

"The Lord is risen," he whispered warmly.

"He is risen indeed," I heard myself whisper in response. Funny how those things come back to you after so many years.

It was all so familiar: the music, the smell of candle wax, the hard, cold wood as I eased into the back pew.

I raised my hand to my forehead, the center of my chest, my left shoulder, my right shoulder.

_Easter came early for your father this year..._

I don't know. I hoped so.

I closed my eyes as the organ swelled to a triumphant peak, and my lips formed the words of a silent prayer.

THE END


End file.
